Much Ado About Enola
by Rockabella Suzy
Summary: Between a series of murders and Watson's engagement, the disruptive arrival of an estranged sister is the last thing Sherlock needs. Can Sherlock and Enola put aside their sibling rivalry and work together to save London from a notorious serial killer?
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: I needed a break from Moriarty fics and I've been wanting to do a sis-fic for a while. Even though I'm using Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes, she is technically an OC as she is entirely my own interpretation. Hope you like. Please review =)**_

"Two murders, two victims seemingly unrelated killed in their own home, no sign of forced entry," Sherlock stated loudly as he paced his living room. "What relates the murders? I'm glad you asked, John. Despite being murdered in their own home, both victims bore the exact same stab wound entering just below the heart, the dimensions of the incision depicting identical murder weapons. The question is, how are these two people related and why were they killed?"

Watson frowned. This was the fifth time Sherlock asked that question. It had been a while since he had seen the great detective so stumped and his frustration was evidently escalating. Watson had taken time away from Mary to help him with this case but as there was not a whole lot to go on he felt a bit useless.

"Why don't we take a break? Clear our minds a bit." Watson suggested, shutting the laptop he had been taking notes on. Sherlock flipped the laptop open again with a steely glare.

"I can't clear my mind, John, I need it," he spoke.

"You know what I mean," Watson sighed.

"Yes, and '_clearing my mind_' means _undoing _all my deductive paths of reasoning."

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut with his fingers to his temples and began muttering random things repeatedly under his breath.

Watson sighed again, cupping his chin in one hand. Poor Sherlock. He hadn't been quite the same since he came back from the dead. Maybe he was making an effort to distract himself from his current situation. Maybe he was trying in his own bizarre way to deal with Watson getting married and moving on.

"Would you stop that?" he said, growing unnerved by Sherlock's behaviour, "You're going to burst a vessel or something."

A knock on the door drew both their attention.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," came Mycroft Holmes' voice as he let himself in.

"Undone," Sherlock grumbled resignedly, dropping his arms melodramatically.

He spun on his heels to face Mycroft.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"Hello, Mycroft," Watson said cheerily, lifting his tea cup by way of greeting. It was best to be polite to one of the most powerful men in Britain. Mycroft responded with a nod before addressing his brother.

"I'm leaving the country for a while," he said.

"Oh good. Bring us back a t-shirt this time."

A sharply dressed man with impeccable posture stepped through the door carrying two large suitcases.

"And I heard there was a room available here."

Sherlock looked at the suitcase man.

"Not him," Mycroft chuckled, "Our sister."

Watson choked on his tea.

"Did I hear that right?" he spluttered, utterly taken aback, "You have a sister? Seriously? Any other secret siblings you want to tell me about?"

"Has it been ten years already?" Sherlock seemed to wonder, and Watson wasn't sure whether he really didn't know or he was just using a figure of speech.

"They grow up so fast," Mycroft responded.

Watson was well aware of the Holmes brothers' petty rivalry with each other but underneath all of it there was no denying the brotherly love and respect for one another - even if neither would outright admit it. But the way they spoke of their sister just now… there was a distinct absence of familial acknowledgment, as if having a sister was nothing more than a fact to them.

"Wait," Sherlock said, eyeing his brother with suspicion, "Why here?"

"Like I said," Mycroft replied, "I'm out of the country and you have a spare room. Besides, living in the heart of London would do her good, give her a chance to find a job and her own place."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not accepting flat mates at the moment."

"I'm not asking." Mycroft stated, the tone of his voice switching from amiable to firm, "Besides, its only temporary."

"My ears are burning!"

A girl in her early twenties appeared from behind Mycroft. She was tall and skinny with long arms and legs. Her light brown hair was gathered in a long poofy ponytail and she had small blue eyes and aquiline features. Her thin pink lips were taut in a shy smile. Watson noted her physical resemblance to her brothers, but physically was where resemblance seemed to stop. Where the boys carried themselves with pride, charisma and egotism, Enola's body language was that of a normal, shy young woman, coming to terms with having to face new responsibilities with her coming of age.

"John, meet Enola the youngest," Mycroft said.

The girl waved nervously.

"Nice to meet you, Enola," Watson said, "I've heard almost nothing about you." He shot a look to Sherlock who mouthed a "_what?_" as if he had done nothing wrong.

"I'm not surprised," Enola shrugged as if it weren't a big deal, "I've been away at boarding school for so long. I'd like to unpack if you don't mind." She thumbed at the pack she was carrying on her back.

Mycroft pointed down the hall towards Watson's old room and with a quick thanks she collected her bags and followed his directions.

"This is not a bed and breakfast," Sherlock said to Mycroft as soon as the bedroom door shut behind Enola.

"I just need someone to keep an eye on her while she adjusts to the real world," Mycroft reasoned, "Lord knows it could have done you some good back in the day."

"I highly doubt that."

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue but then shut again as he appeared to agree.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, "Anyway, I best be off. Got a plane to catch. Sherlock, John, it's been a pleasure as always."

"As always," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth.

Mycroft proceeded to follow the suitcase man out of the flat when he stopped and turned his head back slightly. "Oh and one more thing," he said, "try not to place our baby sister in any undue peril. Mother doesn't need the grief." And with that he left.

There was a moment of repose in which Watson expected Sherlock to explain the situation. Sherlock being Sherlock however just tightened his dressing gown around him and appeared as he always does when he's trying to solve a case. Irritated, Watson decided to interrupt his train of thought.

"You never told me you had a sister," he said.

"So?" Sherlock retorted, not changing his stance.

"So why didn't you?"

"I forgot."

Watson sat back, shaking his head with incredulity. This was just so typical.

"Forgot to tell me or forgot you had a sister?"

Sherlock snapped out of his trance, clearly irritated by Watson's interrogation.

"She's been in boarding school! I hadn't seen her since she was eleven!" Sherlock cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation, "With more pressing things like _multiple murders _to think about, an estranged sibling would hardly be at the forefront of my mind."

"Well at least properly introduce me for heaven's sake!" Watson cried, standing now.

"Fine!"

Sherlock stomped down the hallway and rapped on Enola's door.

"Enola?" he called, giving Watson a disapproving glare, "Would you care to join us?"

There was a moment of silence before Enola emerged, zipping up her coat as she headed for the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Sherlock demanded

"Out," came Enola's reply and suddenly Watson could see the missing resemblance all too clearly.

"Out where?"

Enola turned back to him and produced a hefty wad of notes from her pocket.

"A graduation gift from Mycroft," she said, "Since I've been wearing the same damn uniform for ten years I think it's only imperative to spruce up my wardrobe. Simply put, I'm going shopping. Don't wait up, I already have a key. Nice to meet you, John."

She gave Watson a nod of acknowledgement before she left.

"Well," Watson said as he heard the front door slam shut, "I had my doubts but I now certainly believe you two are related."

"Whatever." Sherlock seemed to dismiss the idea that he had just been reunited with his sister after ten years.

There came the bleep of an incoming text message and Sherlock pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket.

"Ah-_ha_!" The detective's face lit up with glee. "Get your coat, Watson. There's been a third murder. We officially have a serial killer on our hands." Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door.

"Sherlock," Watson sighed, "Clothes."

Sherlock looked down at his dressing gown.

"Quite right," he said showing no embarrassment as any normal person would, "I'll just be a moment." He then disappeared into his bedroom.

Watson sat back down with an elbow on one knee and resting his chin in his hand. He couldn't have normal. Nope. A third murder. A third Holmes sibling. Just another day-in-the-life of Dr. Watson. Well, at least he had something interesting to tell his fiancé when she asks him how his day went.


	2. Chapter 2

The crime scene was at a semi detached house in Vauxhall. John gave a nod to the officers as they lifted the police tape to let he and Sherlock through.

"Afternoon, Lestrade," he said to the DI who greeted them inside.

"Afternoon, boys," replied Lestrade, "Got another one for you. What you make of it?"

In the years since he had known Sherlock, John could say he was no stranger to crime scenes. He had learned to brace himself for the most gruesome and morbid. Yet this scene, like the two before it, were neither of those things. There were no signs of a struggle and no blood spatter. Everything from the furniture suite to the lamp shades seemed virtually untouched.

"His name was Jacob Green," explained Lestrade, observing the body of a man lying face down on the floor, "Forty-two, single, lived alone, worked at Vauxhall Station. That's all we got so far. Due to the nature of the scene we figured it has to have some connection with the first two killings."

John automatically jotted all this down in his notebook. He then frowned and flicked back through the notes of the last two cases. The first victim was a student living at home on the other side of town. The other was a married man in his fifties who ran a local newsagents. Thus far, there was nothing that connected these three people apart from how they were killed.

"Anything else you can tell us about him?" John enquired.

"He may have been spiritual," Lestrade guessed nodding at the bookcase at the far wall.

John stepped toward the bookcase and read the spines. They were indeed of the theological persuasion, most in reference to various religions, some of which he had never even heard of.

"A religious nut then?" He said flicking through one of the volumes.

"No," Sherlock spoke suddenly, "He doesn't follow one religion. He is passionate about many. He's a philosopher. He's searching for the meaning of life."

"Ironic." John glanced at the body. "Don't suppose his hobby has anything to do with his death?"

" Could be," Sherlock mumbled, "If he had been convinced the meaning of life was through death, that may be another way to explain the lack of a struggle. Though that wouldn't explain the previous murders."

John slid the volume back between the other books and watched as Sherlock sat in one of the armchairs, rose again and stood at the feet of the body. It was clear he was reenacting the crime in his mind. He then lay face down beside the body and remained there for a moment. John and Lestrade exchanged glanced.

"Um...Sherlock?" John prompted.

"He didn't fall," came the muffled reply.

"What?"

Sherlock sprang up susdenly. "He didn't fall. He was laid down gently." He beckoned Lestrade over and pointed to the pool of blood that formed from beneath the body. "No spatter," he said. "Also..." From within his coat pocket he produced a rubber glove and snapped it on. He tilted the victim's head slightly so that the front of the face was showing. John crouched down to get a better look.

"No cranial impact," Sherlock continued, "Had he fallen face down there would have been at least some bruising." John dutifully took note.

"Right..." Lestrade mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "So what does it all mean?"

"What does it all mean, John?" Sherlock asked. John faltered, feeling hot under the spotlight.

"Um...well..." he tapped his pen against the notepad, "The victim knew his killer."

"And we know that because...?"

"There was no forced entry. He must have let the killer in."

"Good. And...?"

"And..." He thought about what Sherlock said about the body being laid down. There was something reverent about it. "The killer respected him?" he tried, "This didn't seem like a crime of passion. The killer was...well...nice about the whole murdering thing. I suspect there must have been some sort of meaningful relationship between the two."

"Good. Obvious, but good. You're deductive reasoning hasn't depreciated in my absence so that's something at least," said Sherlock. John decided to take that as a compliment. "There's just one thing we're missing here: motivation."

John struggled with this one and it seemed that Sherlock and Lestrade did too. Sherlock suddenly stood straight. "Who killed you, Jacob Green of Vauxhall, and why did they want you dead?" he demanded, pointing accusingly at the corpse. "Information. We need more information." Sherlock was visibly frustrated now and he paced back and forth in agitation.

"Well the team are still doing background checks on the last two victims and we need to dig into this guy a bit too," said Lestrade, "We can have more information for you soon."

Sherlock seized Lestrade by the shoulders and said, "Soon isn't soon enough, Lestrade. Haven't you heard? There's a serial killer on the loose."

"Say serial killer a little louder, I don't think the press quite heard you," Lestrade retorted.

"Sherlock," John gently interjected, "A word please."

John stepped into the hallway for privacy and Sherlock followed.

"Are you alright?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Of course I'm alright, John. What a stupid question."

"You just...don't seem yourself lately."

"I am perfectly myself I can assure you."

John paused. He wasn't exactly wrong. Sherlock was very much himself, but a version of himself he hadn't seen in a while. People had often made comment that Sherlock's harsh demeanour had softened since John came into his life. Something must have happened since his standoff with Moriarty that reverted him back to his old self, but John couldn't quite figure it out.

"I just think your pushing yourself a bit," he said carefully, "Maybe you should take some time to relax. Have a bath. Spend some time with Enola."

"Who?"

"Your sister."

"Right." Sherlock rolled his eyes in disdain. "I was planning on following the body to the morgue for the post mortem. Then I was going to run some background checks on our victims. Not waiting for this lot to spark a synapse between them. Probably got Anderson or some other waste of taxpayers' money running around-"

"Sherlock-"

"Are you joining me?"

John sighed, growing impatient with Sherlock's disregard for his concern.

"I told you this morning that I have plans with Mary this evening," he replied, "Sherlock, do me a favour and take care of yourself, won't you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Sherlock grumbled irritably before catching himself.

"Really. You haven't slept in twenty-four hours, you're not eating and I haven't seen you this riled up since before you leapt off the roof of St. Bart's."

"Oh fine!" Sherlock hissed overdramatically, "I suppose a quick recharge would help me think properly. I'd still solve the case faster than these idiots."

"Hey!" Lestrade complained as he approached.

"Oh do get over yourself, Lestrade. I wouldn't be here if you didn't need me."

Lestrade simply gave a nod in acquiescence.

"Anyway I best be off," John said, "Remember what I said, Sherlock-"

"Yes, yes, rest, meditate, take a vitamin etcetera, etcetera. I get the picture, John," Sherlock snapped.

"There we go, that's the spirit." He clapped Sherlock on the arm as he made his way to the front door. "Don't worry, we'll figure this out. We always do."

* * *

Sherlock arrived home late in the evening. His mind palace was a mess: the mental equivalent of dozens of post-it notes plastered wall to wall, referencing and cross-referencing each other multiple times. This case was a challenge and while he usually relished challenge this particular one frustrated him. Clues were sparse. What details he had weren't very relevant. He felt like his skill as a detective was waning and the panic the thought brought him was distracting. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps a bit of self care would be good for him.

Inside the door of 221B he felt something was off. He couldn't quite put his finger on what though. The atmosphere was just...different. Putting this feeling down to exhaustion, he removed his coat and scarf and made his way to the bathroom to run a bath. What he saw then appalled him. The bottom of his tub was destroyed with some sort of inky black substance. Sherlock wiped the substance with his fingers and brought it to his nose. Peroxide. Hair dye. It then struck him why the flat felt strange.

"Enola," he grumbled, suddenly remembering his new flatmate.

He stormed out of the bathroom and burst through the spare room door to find Enola wrapped around a lanky boy in passion. The pair broke away, startled by the intrusion. Their clothes were messed and their hair (Enola's was now cut short and dyed black, explaining the bathtub) was disheveled.

"Oh hi!" Enola said adjusting her skirt, "This is Rory."

"Roy," her lustful companion corrected sulkily.

"Roy this is my brother, Sherlock."

"What? As in Sherlock Holmes the great detective?" Roy gushed in awe, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." He enthusiastically exteded a hand to shake but retracted it again. "Actually I wouldn't touch that hand if I were you," he said.

"Oh my god," Sherlock muttered, shutting his eyes and practising great restraint. "Alright. Out."

"Oh, piss off Sherlock. You're worse than Mycroft," Enola said.

Sherlock glared at her. "My house, my rules, sister mine. And rule number one is no boys. So I'll say it once more: out."

He grabbed Roy by the cuff before he could put his jeans back on, dragged him down the hallway and shoved him out the front door.

"Hey! Leave him alone! He done nothing!" Enola protested behind him.

"You too," Sherlock said shoving his sister out on the street with her suitor.

"Wait, what?" Enola said.

Sherlock slammed the door in her face and sighed.

"Give me patience," he grumbled under his breath


End file.
